


Cat's Cradle

by SandrC



Category: Dungeons and Daddies (Podcast)
Genre: Childhood Trauma, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Ron is Autistic, Willy Stampler is His Own Warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:01:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26093029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandrC/pseuds/SandrC
Summary: "What was your father like?"Five words none of the dads ever wanted to hear. Four times they had to think about their answer before Faerûn.
Relationships: Darryl Wilson/Carol Wilson, Henry Oak/Mercedes Oak-Garcia, Ron Stampler/Samantha Stampler
Comments: 16
Kudos: 80





	Cat's Cradle

**Author's Note:**

> Tagged shit as best I could but, yanno, the O-Dads can huff my shorts. Fuck them.
> 
> Big shout out to my homies in Waterdeep! Haha whaddup? I finished it hahah.
> 
> Anyway, uh, character study, I guess, coz I'm good at those. Ron is autistic coz I say so. Um...Carol is an interesting woman and I want her to be okay but if she isn't, I'll make the amicably divorced Wilson content we deserve.
> 
> I can have my cake and eat it too. I'm good at this shit. Bakesale theory baybee.

They were laying in bed, the two of them. Henry had his arms around Mercedes and she was playing gently with a lock of his hair, winding it around her finger idly. When she spoke, he felt it in his collarbone, resonating with his heartbeat.

"What was your father like?"

His face went on a journey, flickering through a handful of emotions before settling on discomfort. While she only caught a few—disgust, confusion, frustration, _regret_ —she carded her fingers through his hair in an effort to soothe him.

"I know you don't like to talk about it but...I'd like to know _something_? I want to help shoulder this part of your past, however heavy it may be." Her sincerity took his breath away, sapping what remained of his fight. Any chance he might have refused to answer left the room as soon as she rolled over to look him in the eyes.

Henry took a tight breath and organized his thoughts. One by one, orderly, he sorted his memories of his father so he could explain him to her. When he spoke, he was surprised at how terse he sounded. His voice was low and tight, words rolling over and through clenched teeth.

" _I_ don't...remember _much_ about my father, to be honest. He _probably_ looked like me? I mean, I _definitely_ don't remember my mother, but I remember hating looking in the mirror. I don't think that would be _her_ fault. _I_ —I... _hope_ it wasn't." He paused, collecting the jumble of emotions into words again, wrangling his thoughts into something coherent. "But he was... _around_. Almost _chronically_. I don't think I could breathe without him telling me how to do it. And he was _so infuriating_!"

The venom that leaked out caught him off-guard and he tamped down on it immediately, shame flooding his system. Mercedes, too, seemed put-off; though instead of looking at him with _pity_ , she just seemed thoughtful.

"I couldn't do _anything_ right and when I tried to imitate how _he_ did it, I was being derivative. If _I_ decided to choose a course of action, it was _wrong_ but if I looked to _him_ for guidance I was _childish_ for needing assistance. I was chasing an ideal that didn't exist because he kept moving the goalposts. And it—it was _the worst_." He let out a shuddering breath, only aware of the tension in his body when it lessened. His muscles hurt.

"You don't want to be that for Lark and Sparrow?" Mercedes inferred. Henry nodded, once, and she nuzzled closer to him.

"I want them to _breathe_ , to have the space to make mistakes and learn from them. I want them to flourish and _grow_. I think...if I had _stayed_ there—if I had never cut off ties with him—I might have stagnated. And that— _that's_ more terrifying than _anything else_ I can imagine."

They lingered in the vulnerability for a bit longer; Mercedes listening to Henry's breaths as he calmed back down. Then she spoke up.

"Well I may not know him _personally_ , but I can assure you that you're _twice_ the father he is. And it has nothing to do with the _amount_ of children you have," she added with a laugh.

"Thank you," he said, kissing the top of her head. She pulled herself closer to him and curled into his grasp, hoping his heart felt lighter now.

And he tried to will his pulse to settle as the details of his childhood faded back into his subconscious. 

* * *

Nick only _really_ asked about his grandpa once. Even then it was less of a genuine inquiry and more of the soft confusion of a child who didn't know better. A child that didn't know that he was better off not knowing _anything_ about the old bastard. But _hey_ , he was ten, and it had been grandparents day at school, and _sure_ , any kid would wonder why their grandparents weren't around. So he asked.

"Hey dad?" He and Nick were chilling on the couch, the TV showing an old rerun of some anime some kid in Nick's class said was good. It was a good amount of busy background noise. Still, Glenn turned to face Nick, eyebrow raised, and he continued. "I know mom's parents died before I was born or whatever but...what happened to _your_ parents?"

A sharp spike of discomfort lanced through Glenn, crunching the edges of his smooth and calm persona. He disguised the wince with a yawn and stretched a bit, overdramatic to sell the damn thing. "I mean, what is there to know?" Nick doesn't buy the deflection, his own eyebrow raised in an eerie imitation of Glenn's. "Alright, _fine_ , I mean, you're not missing much, if I'm being honest."

_Fuck_ though. Nick was looking at him all earnest and shit. Glenn let out a heavy sigh and shifted on the couch, settling into the divot his ass left from many years of chilling.

"My dad _sucked_ , kid. Like, _really_ sucked. Never around, boring as hell, old man shit, yanno? And _you're_ fucking lucky," he let out a terse laugh and continued, pointedly not making eye contact with him. "I mean, at _your_ age, I knew how to squeeze Uncle Sam for every penny I could. Fucking tax season was just extra homework. Ran a house, made my food, fucking had to pay bills for him?"

"I know how to _cook_ ," Nick added, mock offended. Glenn snorted and mussed his hair.

"That's coz you fucking _wanted_ to learn. It's like...a _choice_. Anyway, that's all depressing bullshit but, yeah, _fuck_ my dad. Didn't need him then, don't need him now. You and me versus the world, kiddo." He pushed the lump in his throat down. "Anyway, me and my old man weren't exactly on the level like you and I are. All I was doing was boring adult shit, but earlier. Emancipated myself at seventeen, took everything he owned. I was doing all the work anyway."

"And your mom?" Nick prodded at an open wound he didn't know was there.

"Couldn't tell you. Never knew her."

Nick went quiet for a moment, the TV suddenly _too loud_ , the scene between a man and his son—some kind of deep talk about love and family and the power of caring and _also this realass gun he found_ —deafening beyond belief. Glenn tried to ignore the sound of his own pulse in his ears. He tried to ignore the way his fingers were curling into the arm of the couch and probably cutting more marks into the shitty pleather.

" _M'sorry_." God. _God_ he sounded so sincere.

Glenn smiled at Nick and gently punched him in the shoulder. "No need. _I'm_ here, _you're_ here, that's all we need."

And if he smiled _wide_ enough, repeated it often enough, he might be able to convince himself that's the truth.

* * *

Carol had known Frank Wilson as long as she had known her husband. _Less_ than that, if she was being honest. Time was unkind and took _so much_ from so many people.

When she was first dating Darryl, Frank was the one to talk to her and let her know "if my son does _anything_ that makes you uncomfortable, you come to me and I'll talk some sense into him." When her car broke down the first summer she owned it, Frank taught her how to be a force of nature because "folks'll look at a woman in a space they think is for men and think they can fleece you, so you better use their ignorance to your advantage." Frank was there when they got married, smiling like it was his own wedding, complimenting her dress and his tuxedo and their nuptials.

But Carol knew Frank in ways Darryl didn't like to think about. Because, for all that they both loved and admired Frank Wilson, he was _only human_.

He made mistakes. He got sick. He died. And Carol picked up the pieces as her husband placed a distorted picture of him on a shrine in his heart.

For all that Frank Wilson was a good man, he was _just_ a man. And for all that Darryl forgot that, Carol _remembered_.

There was _one_ moment she remembered clearer than the rest and it was one moment she would never share with Darryl—not because it was anything that would make him _hate_ his father or anything shameful like that—because it would _hurt_ him and, for all people insisted she was a harsh person with sharp edges and a sharper tongue, _she wasn't unkind_.

They were maybe nineteen, just coming home from a party. Neither of them had drunk— _responsible kids_ , Frank had called them once—but they still wanted to study up for finals. While Darryl was setting up their space, Carol swung downstairs to get water and snacks and was surprised by Frank, standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring in the sink while the water ran. She gently sidestepped him and called out, "Are you okay mister Wilson?"

Frank turn in a jerky way, lunged, and wrapped his arms around her. It took her a moment to realize he was _only_ hugging her—years of horror stories from her mother and peers about men and boundaries are hard to forget—but the smell of alcohol was pervasive and overwhelming. It took her much longer to realize that he was crying.

" _M'sorry_ ," he said around thick tears. "I shouldn't've _said_ that. I should be better about this. _I should be better_."

She didn't know what he was talking about until he continued on.

"You can love _whoever_ you want, Casey," he choked, "just _don't leave_. I can't lose _anyone_ else." And thus it was cast in perfect clarity.

Casey was spending time at her friend's house. _Had been_ for the last couple days. When Carol had checked up on her—they had a support system for the gals in the Wilson household but also Casey and Carol got along like a house on fire, even without Darryl involved—she had said something about _needing space._

Her and Frank must've gotten into it about the fact that she liked women.

Burdened with this information, Carol just gently patted Frank on his back until his sobbing petered out and he peeled away, rubbing at his eyes. " _Sorry_ ," his laugh was weak—strained and strange from him, as he always seemed so jovial and light—but he nodded his head at the sink, "I don't know _what_ came over me."

"It's okay, mister Wilson," Carol said. It wasn't a _lie_ but it wasn't the _truth_. Like everything about being an adult, it just _was_. Complicated and messy.

He didn't respond. _She didn't want him to._ She just got her snacks and water and headed back upstairs to find Darryl agonizing over a literature question. She sat down and helped him out, mind miles away. She slept a dreamless sleep.

The next day, Casey was back home and everything seemed as it should be but Carol knew better. She knew better and she never said a word. It wasn't her place.

Frank's death _broke_ something in Darryl. It was a tragedy but the ruins it left behind were worse than the actuality. And for all that Casey and Carol could talk about Frank the Person, Darryl painted him in rose hues, like he did with _anyone_ he loved.

And that tore her up inside; to know that he looked at her the same way, to know she couldn't do a damn thing to dissuade him.

So she was _bitter_ and _angry_ and _maybe_ too hard on him.

But she'd leave Frank alone. That wouldn't be _fair_. A shade too far.

* * *

Ron Stampler considered his relationship with Samantha Harker to be an enigma and a gift all at once. While he had been seeing her for several months now, he was still learning how to be good for her. He was learning her tells and tics and anything she did or did not like. He was walking the careful razors edge of being vulnerable and making sure she was never upset with him.

It was an old tried and true dance he hadn't had to do for many years. Like putting on an old pair of pants, it fit in a way he didn't realize he was missing.

They were at the park. Ron had made food for them—peanut butter sandwiches, his with smooth, hers with crunchy coz she likes the texture, preserves for her, just a bit of honey for him—and she was letting him lean against her while they ate. The small voice in the back of his head that sounded _suspiciously_ like his father often said that he shouldn't be leaning on her, that _she_ should be leaning on _him_ , but she had previously said she liked holding him and he wanted her to be happy. The sun was warm and the clouds looked like sheep and cotton balls but she pointed out one she said looked like her son, Terry Junior, when he was a baby. Ron couldn't imagine it—it was a _cloud_ , it looked lumpy, but also what did Terry Junior even _look like_ as a baby?—but he nodded anyway. She sighed and he settled closer in to her side.

He _liked_ moments like this. Quiet moments. Calm moments. Moments where _nothing_ bad could ever happen.

" _Ron?_ " He turned to face her as she was talking to him. People liked it when you looked at them so, no matter how much he disliked it, he did it for her.

" _Yes?_ "

"What was your father like?"

Oh. _Hm._ That was a hard question to answer. Ron took a long moment to roll the ideas and possibilities around in his head before finally answering.

"My father had high expectations for me." _Why the fuck can't you even do this simple thing? Are you fucking stupid?_ "He wanted me to be the most man I could be." _Don't fucking cry, are you some kind of girl? Besides, the damn thing was sick anyway. No point in keeping a mouth around if it's just gonna be a drag on resources._ "He liked to fish and was very _very_ good at it."

Samantha was watching him as he spoke. He was telling _the truth_. He _wasn't_ lying. And his father wouldn't _want_ him to lie anyway. _Lying is for pussies who can't handle the truth._ Still, there was a soft and strange sadness in her gaze that made Ron feel a little naked. Not the _good_ type, either—at home alone, comfortable and happy and of his own choice—but the type that reminds him of waiting for someone to yell or something to break.

If she could read that on his face—how _do_ people read faces anyway? they're not books and no one has an instruction manual anyway, so what even _are_ facial expressions—she didn't say. Instead, Samantha took a bite of her sandwich and hummed. A rush of warmth sated some of the worry in Ron's limbs because she was pleased with her food. Her words caught him off guard though, "I'm sorry."

" _Why?_ "

"He sounds like a hard man to live with." How did she say things that sound like empirical facts like that? How did she know things and just _say_ them without second-guessing herself?

" _I mean_...he was _my father_." Ron doesn't know what else to say. He's already told her the most flattering truth possible. "And he's _gone_. It really isn't that bad."

"Do you miss him?" She asked, taking another bite of sandwich.

"No?" He isn't sure what she wants from him there. Is he _supposed_ to? Kids grow up, leave home, and don't miss their parents. Sometimes they get a little older and their parent dies and they don't miss them because they were never _supposed_ to. Do people genuinely miss their parents when they're grown up?

The face Samantha was making made him think that maybe they _did_ and _he_ was the odd one out. He ate some of his sandwich. The honey and peanut butter blend was sickly now, too sweet, the whole meal too soft for him. _Before_ , the lack of effort meant he could focus on her and what she was saying, but _now_ it meant he couldn't focus on the food instead of the conversation.

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Ron," she said, her voice that weird soft pity tone she had when she talked about her husband or sad things or her son missing her husband. But, before he could comment, she took another bite of her sandwich and he let her eat without interruption.

He wasn't certain _why_ , but it made him sad to hear her apologize.


End file.
